Le Bon Sauvage
by Sereq ieh Dashret
Summary: Upon fleeing from the old man's cottage, the Creature stumbles upon the path of a Napoleonic veteran who can accept him as he is. Both hide secrets, but can they find a balance and happiness? NOT slash, even if it seems. Rating may rise. Erratic updates.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the original Frankenstein characters. They belong to Mrs. Mary Woolstonecraft Shelley, to whom I'm grateful for spinning such a compelling tale. The OCs, however, are mine.**

**Note: the story here is set right after the Restoration of the Bourbon royal family in France. At the time, Savoy was an independent kingdom under the rule olf the savoy royal dinasty.**

**Flames will be used to light the fireplace. It is winter, I could use extra heat.**

**Updates will be erratic, as I've resumed writing my original fiction project(s).**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>He had been on the run for so long that he didn't even know where he was anymore.<br>He knew it was winter, because the snow and the knifing winds were harrying him as much as the enraged peasants and he knew he was somewhere in the mountains, but that was all.  
>He had lost all sense of time since running away from the cottage of the old blind man.<br>He felt weary to the bone, hungry, half-frozen despite his resistance to low temperatures and desperate.  
>What did he do wrong?<br>Why were those peasants out for his blood?  
>He had only tried to help the old man.<br>Sometimes he felt so angry himself that he could turn around and rend his pursuers limb from limb with his bare hands and that shocked him to the core.  
>Panting from the exertion, he threw a quick look over his shoulder. No one in sight. He sighed and leaned on a tree trunk, trying to catch his breath.<br>Twigs rustled and snapped from the direction where he was heading. He almost jumped in surprise.  
>The peasants closed in from all directions, shouting abuse and waving their weapons. He was cornered.<br>Growling low in his throat, angry as hell, he launched himself against them, unthinking, acting on bare instinct and anger.

Riding through the snow always made Capt. Lagarde think of the Russian campaign, even if the mountains near his refuge in Savoy were nothing like that cold, unforgiving hell.  
>The peace of the woods was almost palpable, the air crystal clear.<br>It always did him good to be alone in the middle of nature, free to think and to reminisce.  
>After the restoration, he had all but been exiled into this remote place, but it was fine for him. Without the Emperor, without any remaining vestige of the Revolution, France was nothing but a travesty.<br>Lagarde was content of living in a cosy cottage with his housekeeper and his books as only company, or so he repeated to himself.  
>A sharp noise tore Lagarde from his reflections.<br>After almost twenty years in the army, there was no way Lagarde could mistake the noise for anything but a fusillade.  
>Without second thoughts, he nudged his horse into a canter and towards the source of the noise.<p>

He happened upon a surreal scene: a group of peasants was attacking a very tall man dressed in rags. As in a verse from the Iliad, the tall man was fighting like a mountain lion surrounded by angry dogs, fearlessly and competently, throwing them away like ragdolls.  
>A well-aimed punch sent another peasant flying through the snow and the tall man broke into a startlingly fast run for the thick of the forest.<br>Another peasant dropped to one knee and took aim with a rifle. The shot echoed weirdly between the trees.  
>The tall man staggered and fell to his knees, then picked himself up and resumed his run, staggering and leaving a trail of bright blood on the snow.<br>The peasants were closing in on him, to finish him off.

Lagarde nudged his horse into motion again and crossed the peasants' path, uttering an inarticulate battle cry.  
>There was no way he was going to keep quiet while those men murdered their victim in cold blood. The peasants stopped short, almost treading on each other's feet.<br>"What the hell is going on here?" he yelled in his best battlefield voice. "Bloody murder?"

One of the peasants, the one with the rifle, who seemed to be the leader of the gang, took a step towards Lagarde with an angry expression.  
>"No murder, Sieur. – he said, his French thick with savoy accent – It's no murder to kill a monster. It is self-defence."<br>The man puffed up his chest, striking a righteous pose.  
>Lagarde glanced over his shoulder to the tall man dressed in rags.<br>He had stopped running away and was now kneeling in the snow, pressing a blood stained hand to his side.  
>Under a mop of long, ragged, pitch-black hair, his face was gaunt, heavily scarred and ashen pale, his lips dark as a bruise. Admittedly, he looked like he had died a couple of days before and had not noticed yet, painfully thin, his skin stretched taut over bones, and deathly pale, almost greyish.<br>The rags he was wearing were totally inadequate for the weather and he was barefoot in the snow. He must be on the verge of hypothermia, if not already half-frozen, no surprise he looked more dead than alive, Lagarde mused, and his anger towards the peasants increased.  
>It was not uncommon for isolated communities to pick on a vagabond or a strange person and victimize him or her, to the point of believing them to be monsters or lycanthropes or witches and killing them.<p>

Lagarde caught the eyes of the rag-clad stranger, surprisingly blue and full of emotions: rage, fear, desperation, resignation and, maybe, a faint tinge of hope.  
>It was the gaze of a wounded animal, of an innocent victim.<br>Lagarde could understand that, to the eyes of those uneducated peasants he must look like something out of the Wild Hunt, but he was a person and he was not going to let him be abused further.  
>"There is no monster here, you lot of pox-ridden scoundrels, only a man! - he yelled - What are the accusations against him? What his crimes?"<br>The leader of the peasants looked at him uncomprehendingly. "Accusations?" he repeated  
>"Yes, accusations. If this man has done anything wrong, you should bring him to the court in Grenobl - Lagarde explained - Do you have any proof of wrongdoing?"<br>The leader remained silent and clutched his rifle tightly.  
>"As I imagined – Lagarde commented with a smirk. – No proof, no accusations, only prejudice. This is murder, citoyen."<br>Lagarde could see that the appellation brought a grimace of disgust on the face of the Savoyard and pressed on. "Perhaps it is you who should be brought to court in Grenoble, after all."  
>The peasant punitive squad was shaken by a ripple of unease.<br>"Leave this man be and I'll let it pass. Insist and I will see every one of you hanged for murder, my friends. Your choice." he said.  
>"You'll regret this, you godless Jacobin. – the leader threatened – It is a monster and it will repay your mercy with death." he prophesied, but shouldered his rifle and lead his men away.<p>

Lagarde turned his lone eye back on the stranger, who was still huddling on the ground, his face tight with pain.  
>Lagarde sighed and dismounted, but as soon as he approached the stranger, he tried to get to his feet and run away, only to collapse again with a cry of pain.<br>"Easy there, citoyen. – Lagarde said, holding his hands out non-threateningly – I do not want to hurt you."  
>The stranger didn't reply but looked upon him with an odd intensity and with wariness, exactly like a wounded animal.<p>

Lagarde kneeled on the snow and, even if he was a bloody tall man, felt a bit small beside the stranger.  
>"They shot you, I need to see your wound." he said gently.<br>"Why are you trying to help me?" asked the stranger in a slightly accented French. Maybe he was Swiss, Lagarde mused. His voice was deep and rough, as if it was rusty with lack of use.  
>"You'd rather I left you to die of hypothermia and blood loss here?" Lagarde retorted<br>"But I'm a monster…" the stranger objected mournfully.  
>Lagarde scoffed. "You're quite awful, that you are, but you look distinctively human and you bleed like any other human I've ever seen, and I've seen many humans bleed, trust me. – he declared – Now take your hands off the wound and let me have a look."<br>The stranger obeyed and Lagarde extended a hand to shift the rags to the side and have a look at the wound. The bullet didn't seem to have harmed any vital organ, but the hole was big and was bleeding profusely and the bullet was still there, somewhere.  
>The stranger needed medical attention and, even if Lagarde was confident that he could help him, he didn't have any medical instruments with him, plus, the man needed some warmth and food (and maybe a bath, later).<p>

"Can you walk?" he asked.  
>The stranger shook his head. "My head is spinning." he said.<br>"Right. – commented Lagarde – Give me your hand." he instructed and tried to pull the man to his feet.  
>Yes, the stranger was definitely taller than him, which put the stranger at least at seven feet, and he was quite heavy especially since his legs seemed on the point of buckling under his weight.<br>Huffing and panting, Lagarde dragged the shivering stranger to his horse and had him drape sideways on the saddle (he was too weak to ride, now), then took the reins and walked his horse through the snow.  
>Luckily, he had not wandered too far from his cottage.<br>"Where are you leading me?" the stranger asked weakly, but still with a strong hint of mistrust.  
>"To my cottage. You need help." Lagarde replied.<br>The stranger didn't comment further and lay motionless on the saddle. Maybe he had fallen unconscious.  
>Lagarde quickened his pace.<br>It would not do to save the stranger only to let him die of exposure and blood loss.  
>Apart from human sympathy and compassion, Lagarde felt like he had a lot of questions to ask him.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the original Frankenstein characters. They belong to Mrs. Mary Woolstonecraft Shelley, to whom I'm grateful for spinning such a compelling tale. The OCs, however, are mine.**

**Fluffy chapter. No warnings.  
><strong>

**Flames will be used to light the fireplace. It is winter, I could use extra heat.**

**Updates will be erratic, as I've resumed writing my original fiction project(s).**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Hours later, a half-exhausted Lagarde went to check on the stranger.<p>

Since passing out on his horse, the man had not regained consciousness, but his breathing was regular and his heartbeat slow and steady.  
>The removal of the bullet had gone well, as expected, totally within his experience of field medicine. The wound did not show any signs of infection so far, but as he examined the stranger, he noticed that the rest of his broad but quite thin body was covered in the same heavy scarring as his face, even worse, if possible.<p>

It looked as if the man had been cut apart and sewn back together without much care to aesthetics, the stitches wide and sloppy, leaving ridges and grooves on the man's skin, and he had those scars everywhere: across his chest and abdomen, around his limbs, even around his privates,  
>The sight was absolutely ghastly and Lagarde shuddered at the idea of the pain the man must have suffered. He had absolutely no clue as how did he actually survive, but maybe the wounds hadn't been very deep.<br>Lagarde shook his head. The only two things that came into his mind at the sight were torture (but who would be so cruel as to do something like that to a person nowadays?) and, oddly, Plutarch's De Iside et Osiride, which he had been reading lately.

He had become fascinated with Ancient Egypt during the campaign of the Nile, back in the first years of the Empire and he had always tried to learn a bit more.  
>Egyptology was a burgeoning discipline and Lagarde enjoyed following its first developments.<br>He had lately acquired a very nice edition of Plutarch's work and gladly immersed himself in the story of passion, intrigue and homicide he depicted.  
>Lagarde mused that, after the whole debacle, Osiris must have looked quite like the stranger sleeping in his bed, only minus certain essential bits which his guest still retained, mercifully.<br>Since homicidal long-eared creatures and mystical rituals of resurrection seemed in short supply in these days, the scars on the stranger's skin must have a more mundane origin, one that Lagarde wanted to investigate, if only to see the person or persons who had done that to the poor man hanged or in jail for the rest of their lives.

Yawning, Lagarde rubbed his only eye and left his room, with the intention of catching some sleep in the rarely used guest room and checking on his patient later.  
>It had been a bloody long day.<p>

When he woke up, he had no clue as to where he was and what had happened to him.  
>The last thing he remembered was being on the run from those men, the fight, being shot, the pain, being unable to run further, weak and frightened, and then the one-eyed man had stopped his pursuers, saving him.<br>The man had dismounted from his horse and talked to him, unafraid, as if he was human like everybody else.  
>He had even touched him, held his hand and supported his weakened form as he pulled them both to the horse, without a hint of disgust.<br>Between the exhaustion and the disbelief, he had been rendered speechless.  
>He had been too weak and relieved to hold on to his mistrust of humans and the man's kindness had struck him deep, deeper than the bullet, to his very heart.<p>

Wherever he might be now, he was finally warm and he was lying on his back on something soft and around him was something equally soft and the place smelled clean, like soap and a fireplace.  
>Groggily, he opened his eyes, gazing up at a beamed ceiling.<br>He was inside a house, again, but this time no one was chasing him out screaming.  
>He glanced around, warily.<p>

The room was cosy but sparsely furnished: a wardrobe, a table, a chair, a smaller table with a bowl and the bed and he appeared to be the sole occupant so far, even if there were signs of recent habitation.  
>A book was resting on a small table beside the bed. Curious, he unwound an arm from the soft fabric that was wrapped around him and picked it up. "Emile, ou De L'Education" was the title.<br>He was halfway tempted to open it and read a bit, since reading was one of the only pleasures of his wretched life, but he had more pressing concerns, at the moment, like discovering where he was, where the one-eyed man was and where he could find some food.  
>His stomach rumbled and he admitted to be quite hungry and surely the book would not disappear while he had a look around.<p>

Sighing, he discarded the soft cloth that covered him and swung his legs down from the bed. The floor underneath his feet was cool, smooth wood and the room was warm enough that he didn't feel uncomfortable, unclothed as he was.  
>He looked around, in search of his rags, but was unable to locate them.<br>"I'll have to source some new clothes for when I venture outside again." he thought, sighing and hoping that whoever had done away with his clothes had not taken his books as well, and tried to stand up.  
>His head started spinning again as when he had fallen in the clearing, but he managed to prop himself upright against the wall and soon it passed.<br>Apart from a slight twinge in his side, where he had been shot, he had no other signs of discomfort.  
>Comforted by this fact, he set out to explore, walking slowly and using the wall as a support.<br>He opened the door to the room silently and padded along a slightly cooler hallway, then sighted an open door and poked his head in to see what was in there.

The one-eyed man was sitting on a big, plush chair near the fireplace, reading with concentration.  
>He took his time watching him with intent, trying to discover what made this strange man so different from the rest of humankind that he could look upon a monster such as him without flinching.<br>Apart from having only one visible eye (the place where the other had been was covered by a patch), he looked no different from any other man he had ever seen. He was taller than average, even if not as tall as him, his curly red-brown hair bound on the back of his head, his face smooth as a youth's. Nothing in his face or figure suggested any explanation for his behaviour. Maybe the lack of an eye affected his sight enough that he didn't realize how monstrous he was?

"Are you done with staring at me from the door? – the one-eyed man suddenly asked, raising his gaze from the book – Come here, I won't bite you."  
>He gasped and gripped the doorframe for dear life. The man must have seen him looking at him, but was not discomfited, no, he was entreating him to join him in the same room.<br>His heart raced in his chest and he felt a deep sense of unease.  
>Everything he had ever known about humans was being suddenly overturned by his benefactor.<br>"Do not be childish, come on!" the one-eyed man insisted and he obeyed, warily entering the room, ready to bolt at the least sign of danger.

This time, the one-eyed man had a reaction upon seeing him.  
>His lone eye widened and his face became red. "I should have left clothes for you." the man commented, averting his gaze and shaking his head.<br>"T- thank you for your kindness, monsieur, – he replied, nervously, this was the first time he talked normally with someone who could see him – but it's not that cold here. I'm perfectly fine. Do not trouble yourself on my account."  
>The one-eyed man gave him a puzzled look and shook his head again.<br>"Well, welcome back to the land of the living, citoyen. You've been out of it for three days, but I have to admit that now you look quite restored. – he said calmly – I am even surprised that you are already up and about, I would have thought you'd need a few more days of rest. Anyway, I'm Hippolyte Lagarde, former captain of the Cuirassiers." the man added, standing up and extending a hand towards him.  
>Instinctively, he shied away, looking with puzzlement at his hand.<br>"Nevermind. – the man sighed, letting his hand fall at his side – And what would your name be, citoyen?"  
>"I do not have a name, monsieur. Nobody bothered to give me one." he answered truthfully, bitterness seeping to tinge his words.<br>His creator had abandoned him, running away screaming from his hideousness, yet this stranger was speaking to him calmly as if nothing was amiss. Maybe he would be able to give him a name, he wondered.

The man – Hippolyte – frowned, apparently concerned. "How could your parents leave you without a name, citoyen? – he asked with a mixture of disbelief and anger and he started to worry – No, no, I'm not angry with you. – Hippolyte reassured him quickly – But this is barbarous, it is medieval superstition!"  
>"Please, monsieur, do not be angry on my account. He didn't want me, therefore he didn't name me. But maybe you can name me yourself, if my lack of names so concerns you." he suggested.<br>"Nonsense, citoyen. You're not a stray puppy to be named by whoever takes it in. – Hippolyte retorted, shaking his head again – If I ever clap my eyes on whomever did that to you…" he menaced, shaking his fist.

He heard someone's footsteps and turned to face a rather elderly woman who was carrying a tray of something that smelled very good.  
>"I've brought tea and cake, captain…" the woman began cheerfully, but then her gaze fell on him and raked up and down on his form and the woman reddened so much that she looked on the verge of exploding and then she shrieked so loudly that it hurt his ears and ran away as fast as her short legs would allow.<br>His heart started to pump frantically again and he looked at Hippolyte with fear and concern, then turned to run away. This time everything was working so fine, he thought with regret, but a strong hand closed on his arm and stopped him on his tracks.

"No need to run away, citoyen. No one will harm you. Marie was just a bit shocked. - Hippolyte said calmly and when he looked a question to him he added – You do realize you are very naked, don't you?"  
>He nodded, uncomprehendingly. "Is that a problem?" he asked.<br>"Nom de Dieu! – Hippolyte exclaimed and let go of his hand, grabbing a blanket and tossing it to him – Wrap this around your waist, citoyen, and wait here. I'll talk to Marie, try to calm her down and get our tea back."  
>He did as he was told and was going to tell Hippolyte to extend his apologies to the lady, but the captain had already left the room in a hurry, closing the door behind him.<p>

He sighed and dropped on the plush chair, a bit weary from the turmoil of emotions he had been plunged in. The chair was surprisingly comfortable and, now that he didn't have to concentrate so much on the one-eyed man, he noticed that the room was positively packed with books, housed in wooden pieces of furniture. On the small table next to the chair, rested the book Hippolyte had been reading: Plutarch's Moralia.  
>He was quite curious about this one, having enjoyed Plutarch's Lives, but he thought it would be rude to pinch it from his host, especially since there were so many other books lying around.<br>Maybe he could ask him later if he could read it…

He shook his head, angry with himself. There was no point in entertaining hopes for the future: sooner or later Hippolyte would realize that he was a monster and would chase him out, or even try to kill him.  
>He was a monster and people didn't lend books to monsters.<br>The best he could hope was to get some clothes and some food and be sent on his lonely way.  
>Sighing, he went to the book-cupboard and had a look at the titles. He had no idea there were so many books in the world and all of them seemed very interesting and appealing.<br>After a moment of indecision, he picked up Voltaire's "Contes Philosophiques" and returned to the chair.  
>He would just have a look at it, while he waited, ready to bolt at the first notice, he told himself, but soon he was too engrossed in the reading to even notice the return of his host.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the original Frankenstein characters. They belong to Mrs. Mary Woolstonecraft Shelley, to whom I'm grateful for spinning such a compelling tale. The OCs, however, are mine.**

**A bit more interaction. No warnings.  
><strong>

**Flames will be used to light the fireplace. It is winter, I could use extra heat.**

**Updates will be erratic, as I've resumed writing my original fiction project(s). However, I'm quite inspired by this fic, now, and might update more tomorrow.  
><strong>

**Enjoy! (And, please, review. I know people are reading this, I've seen the stats. Come on, people, I want to know what you think of it!)  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"Sieur, I am not going to go back there if our guest is still indecent. This is final." Marie protested, outraged, banging pots and pans so much to prepare dinner that it would surely contain traces of metal.<br>Hippolyte could tell that his nakedness, however impressive, was not the only thing that had shocked his housekeeper, but she was putting a brave face on it and focusing on the most understandable concern.  
>"I'll go check on him, Marie, d'accord? He should be less indecent now, but I'll have to lend him some clothes." he said gently.<br>"He is not in his right mind, to walk around like that. Ha!" she commented disdainfully and Hippolyte couldn't help but second her opinion, at least to some extent.  
>The stranger seemed extremely naïve and skittish, as if completely unused to human interactions except violence, however, he didn't seem simple or defective.<br>His accent was definitely Swiss and he spoke with propriety, at least as far as he could tell, however, he didn't appear to have any sense of decency, and this had already proven a problem.

The stranger was a complete mystery, one that probably hid abysses of violence and cruelty, of which he had been the victim.  
>Unnamed, probably unloved and abused and most likely tortured, his life must have been a living hell and it was actually surprising that he had not turned to violence, but even when he had been fighting against the peasants, he had not struck to kill, but merely to incapacitate, in order to run away.<p>

Sighing, Hippolyte padded to his room, where the stranger had been housed in those last few days and rummaged in his closet, searching for spare clothes.  
>He selected a shirt and a pair of trousers, which probably would be a bit short for him, and returned to the sitting room, hoping that he had not run away or destroyed anything.<br>He didn't think he would, but his behaviour was actually difficult to predict, since he didn't react normally to most forms of interaction.

Hippolyte opened the door quietly, mindful of not startling his guest, and poked his head in as he had done minutes earlier.  
>The intensity with which the stranger had studied him had been slightly disquieting, as if he had been trying to decipher him, but not malevolent.<br>Now it was his turn to stare, instead: the stranger was sitting on his chair, which, however big, still looked a bit small for him, the checked plaid wrapped around his waist like an highlander's kilt as he had ordered, and he was completely concentrating on a book, his eyes scanning the words eagerly, his bruise-dark lips slightly parted, oblivious to anything else.  
>The whole picture was a bit incongruous, but it was quite endearing. Who would have thought that he could read?<p>

"Citoyen." he called softly but he startled nevertheless, almost dropping the book from his hands.  
>He got to his feet with surprising grace for a man so tall and put the book down looking guilty.<br>"I am sorry if I presumed to take one of your books, monsieur, but I was only meaning to have a look at it." he said nervously.  
>Hippolyte chuckled. "Did you like it?" he asked gently.<br>The stranger's eyes widened, as if such a question was the last thing he had expected. "I quite like Voltaire's idea of religion, monsieur, and the plot is engaging. The character is more sympathetic than Werther." he replied politely.  
>"Ah, you've been reading the Contes Philosophiques! – Hippolyte exclaimed, quite pleased – That is one of my favourites, actually. And you've read Goethe."<br>The stranger smiled and despite the scars on his face it was not unsightly. "Yes, monsieur, that was the second book I've ever read. I was wondering if you had seen where my satchel has gone, by the way." he replied.  
>"Your satchel? – Hippolyte repeated – It must be in my room, somewhere. I'll find it, do not worry." he added and a relieved expression passed on the stranger's face.<br>"I've managed to calm Marie down, but she insists that she won't bring us food until you are properly clothed. – he added, thrusting the bundle of clothes towards him – Here, wear these."  
>The stranger picked up the clothes and examined them with attention, then sighed and promptly let the blanket fall.<br>Hippolyte averted his gaze politely and when he looked back, the stranger was already decent. The white shirt made his skin look even more unhealthily grey, but all in all he seemed a bit more civilised, less like a member of the Manade d'Hellequin, even if the slightly short sleeves left the scars around his wrists starkly visible.

"I hope she was not too offended." the stranger said, shyly.  
>"She'll be fine, just as long as you don't do it again." Hippolyte replied and went to the door, poking his head out.<br>"Marie! All clear now. Please, bring the tea." he called and went back into the room.  
>The stranger stared nervously at him, fidgeting in place.<br>"Sit down, citoyen. There is no reason to be afraid." he said and the man promptly obeyed, sitting on one of the smaller chairs, which looked diminutive like a child's chair for him.  
>Hippolyte sat down on his armchair just across the coffee table from him and tried to resume a civilised conversation, hoping to glean some insight on his guest's predicament.<br>"So, how did you end up in Savoy?" he asked casually.

His attempt at conversation was thwarted by Marie, who arrived with the tray, which she set on the coffee table, and gave the stranger a hard stare, as if challenging him to do anything improper again.  
>The stranger positively cringed beneath her silent scolding and stared down at his hands, his ragged black hair falling around his face like a curtain.<br>Marie poured two cups of tea, put the teapot down and walked to the door.  
>"Dinner will be ready in two hours, captain." she announced curtly and closed the door behind her.<p>

"Do not mind her too much, citoyen. - Hippolyte advised, pouring a little milk in his tea – She will put the accident behind her soon enough." he added, sipping his tea.  
>The stranger still stared at his hands.<br>"Come on, have a cup, eat some biscuits. I bet you're hungry." he entreated.  
>The stranger nodded and picked up a biscuit, nibbling it hesitantly, then his whole face lit up in joy.<br>"This is very good. – he whispered – It is almost like bread, but much better. I've never had anything quite as tasty as this." he proclaimed with genuine enthusiasm.  
>It was just a galette, a simple, unassuming biscuit, yet he was almost awestruck by it and that made Hippolyte's heart clench, for some reason.<p>

The stranger munched on his biscuit and picked up another one, making short work of it, then gingerly picked up the cup and sniffed the contents suspiciously.  
>Hesitantly, he brought the cup to his lips and took the smallest sip. "It's bitter." he commented with a grimace.<br>Hippolyte chuckled, but was disconcerted that the stranger didn't seem to know what tea was. "Put some sugar in it, or some milk. It will get better." he advised.  
>The stranger frowned and Hippolyte put down his cup and leaned across the table to pour milk and add sugar to the stranger's cup, while he looked at him with astonishment.<br>"Try now." he entreated.  
>The stranger nodded and brought the cup to his lips again, taking another sip. "It is much better indeed." he commented and took a bigger sip.<br>Hippolyte smiled and took up his cup again, lifting it in a toast to the stranger, but he didn't seem to get the hint.

The stranger drank his tea quite politely and set down the cup, then stared at his hands again.  
>"Monsieur, I must thank you from the deepest of my heart for the kindness you showed me. – he said, lifting his head to look straight at him – No one had ever talked to me as if I was a real person, or approached me with anything but disgust and violence, yet you took me in your abode and sheltered me, you shared your food with me, a monster. – he said and Hippolyte could see tears gathering in his blue eyes – You showed me that there is still kindness in humanity, but I shall not impose upon you too long. The only thing I beg of you is to give me back my clothes and my satchel, and, if you have anything you could spare, some food for the journey and I will depart, never to darken your threshold again." he concluded.<br>"Nonsense, citoyen. – Hippolyte replied – You've been shot and it's still winter outside, I cannot in good conscience allow you to resume your journey in these conditions. – he said with finality – And one thing more, citoyen, stop calling yourself a monster. It doesn't matter how many times someone told you the contrary, but you are as human as me. You think, you talk, you breathe, you bleed as a human. I've seen rather more of you than what I'd be comfortable with and there was nothing that was not human in you. You have got scars, big deal, I've got scars too. – he said, lifting his eyepatch and baring the scar where his eye was supposed to be – Maybe you have more of them than average, but it doesn't make you a monster, it makes you just a man who has suffered more than most. When people call you a monster, it is just out of ignorance and prejudice. They are wrong, not you."

The stranger looked at him with awe and those tears started streaming down his face and Hippolyte had the sudden impulse to hug the man, but restrained himself, not quite knowing how he would react.  
>"Let's make a deal, citoyen. – he said instead – You stay here as a guest until springtime, when the ways are clear again and it is safe to resume your journey, meanwhile you rest and get better. How would you like this?" he asked.<p>

The stranger slid off the chair and fell to his knees, sobbing. This time Hippolyte couldn't help but jump from his chair and kneel beside him, patting his back for comfort.  
>"What's wrong, citoyen?" he asked softly.<br>"Nothing is wrong, monsieur. Everything is too good, like a dream. It cannot be real. – the stranger replied between heart-wrenching sobs – It cannot last and I will find myself alone again, as I've always been, as I'll ever be, but worse, because I will have glimpsed how life should be and I cannot bear it. It is too much." he cried.  
>Hippolyte shook his head and encircled the stranger's broad shoulders with his arms, drawing him close to his own body until the stranger's head rested on his shoulder. He froze completely, but Hippolyte started whispering comforting words to his ear and petting his hair gently, until he relaxed a bit and awkwardly hugged him back.<br>"I will find whoever did this to you, whoever hurt you and abandoned you without even a name, whoever convinced you that you should be shunned and despised, and I will make them pay, you have my word, citoyen." he said, the last bits of his earliest upbringing, who spoke of comfort and nurturing, and the rest of himself in accord for once.

The stranger lifted his head from Hippolyte's shoulder and stared at him with wide, beautiful blue eyes.  
>"You are an angel, aren't you?" he asked softly.<br>Hippolyte shook his head. "No, I'm just a man, as you are. There are no angels or demons or monsters, citoyen. Only humans; bad humans, good humans, intelligent humans, stupid humans, but the point is: nothing is predetermined, your life is yours to mould." he replied.  
>"I do not want to be alone forever." the stranger said.<br>"You won't be, you'll see." he replied and stood.

The stranger picked himself up as well and Hippolyte felt short beside him, the top of his head barely reaching his chin.  
>"Let's sit down again, citoyen, and talk. There is still time until dinner." he said, getting back to his chair and the stranger followed his example.<br>Hippolyte decided to skirt around the issues of his guest's life and steered the talk towards books, a thing they both loved, apparently.  
>They talked and talked and talked and Hippolyte was amazed by the depth of his insight and sensitivity, which more than made up for his inexperience.<br>It seemed as if he had no childhood, no memories, that he had just sprang to life like that, with his scarred skin and his deeply ingrained belief that he deserved only rejection, however, he was anything but simple and thirsted for knowledge, for experience, for interaction and Hippolyte would not deny him.  
>He suspected he was in for the most interesting months of his life.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the original Frankenstein characters. They belong to Mrs. Mary Woolstonecraft Shelley, to whom I'm grateful for spinning such a compelling tale. The OCs, however, are mine.**

**Some revelations. No warnings.  
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**Flames will be used to light the fireplace. It is winter, I could use extra heat, especially now at three AM.  
><strong>

**I might squeeze a new chapter in tomorrow.  
><strong>

**Enjoy! (And, please, review. I know people are reading this, I've seen the stats. Come on, people, I want to know what you think of it!)**

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><p>Every day he woke up thinking that everything must have been a dream, that he would find himself alone, in the wilderness, hounded by people who did not see beyond his accursed ugliness and every day he opened his eyes and saw the wooden beams of the ceiling of Hippolyte's guestroom and knew that it was real.<br>The veteran had given him everything he had ever wished for and never thought he would have, friendship, company, acceptance, without questions, without judgement.  
>His days passed between reading in the sitting room, conversing with Hippolyte and having walks near the cottage with him. He didn't know hunger or cold or fear anymore.<br>The worst threat of this wonderful new life were the silent glares of madame Marie, the housekeeper, who looked at him as if she half-expected him to do something improper, as shedding his clothes in front of her or eating without washing his hands first.

Hippolyte, his host, was a wonderful person, caring and understanding. He never pressured him to reveal anything about his past and tried to make him feel comfortable in every way.  
>The first time he had called him "friend", a month into their agreement, he had erupted in tears again, as that first day, and Hippolyte had soothed him again, with infinite patience.<br>Why did he manage to accept him, that man he had met by chance in the woods and who hadn't had any responsibility towards him , while his own creator had fled from him in terror?

Hippolyte took everything in stride, his lack of a name, his hideousness, his dreadful manners and never belittled him for any of his flaws.  
>He called him citoyen, which, he had learned, was how people had called each other when they had believed that everybody was equal and as a brother to anyone else.<br>As if a monster such as him, not born of man or woman but pieced together from corpses, could be as a brother to a virtuous and noble man such as Lagarde!

He had not found the courage to reveal this sort of information to his benefactor even if he was more than halfway convinced that the veteran would not believe him.  
>Hippolyte was a real rationalist, a son of the Enlightenment, and would dismiss as fantasies his tales of twisted science.<br>He didn't know what he would feel if that happened, but he was much more concerned about what would happen if Hippolyte believed him. Would he turn away from him in horror? Would he deny their friendship and chase him out?  
>He felt like he shouldn't withhold the truth from his only friend, but he was too afraid to confess.<br>The truth was that, despite his protestation of wanting to leave as soon as springtime came, he didn't want to lose what he had.  
>He wouldn't mind a nomad's life and the hardship that came with freedom, if only he was not alone. If Hippolyte came with him, he would resume his journey tomorrow, but the road lost its appeal, if he had to tread it on his own and even finding his creator and giving him a piece of his mind didn't seem as important as before.<br>He didn't need a father, now that he had a friend.

It was strange how much Hippolyte had grown used first and fond later of having the stranger around in his house.  
>Almost every morning, before breakfast, he entered the sitting room and found him curled near the fireplace with a book, looking peaceful and relaxed.<br>He had gone through half of his library already and, at this pace, he would have to go to town and get more books quite soon.  
>The conversations they had, on the inherent good of man, on free will and destiny, on nature and god, on the role of women, were magnificent. The stranger seemed to be a natural philosopher and even if some of his conclusions were quite gloomy, he enjoyed discussing with him, be it at home, in the privacy of the sitting room, or walking through the reviving woods.<p>

Hippolyte was amazed at how swift and sure-footed the stranger was, despite his bulk.  
>He looked perfectly at home in the woods, as if he was a forest spirit given human shape, and could tread silently without making a single twig snap and ran as fast as a deer and, to be sure, he greatly enjoyed running through the woods.<br>Sometimes, Hippolyte had even joined him, and the stranger had slowed his pace accordingly, to accommodate him and he must admit that it was quite thrilling.

His wound had healed perfectly, hardly leaving a noticeable scar and, now that he was properly fed and cared for, his skin had lost its greyish tinge and was now merely a bloodless chalk white, which was not a terribly great improvement, but was better than nothing.  
>Until his rather abrupt arrival in his life, Hippolyte had thought that he was content with loneliness, that he didn't need anyone, but, in truth, he had felt lonely and was glad to have found a friend in this stranger.<br>He rather dreaded the idea that soon it would be spring and his new friend would leave him, maybe to resume a life of torment.

It was in this rather gloomy mood that Hippolyte happened on his friend one morning, in the sitting room, reading a book, as usual, and frowning.  
>"Good morning, citoyen." he called, trying to sound cheerful. The stranger had not decided on a name yet, maybe hoping that he would pick one for him, which he was not going to do, but calling him citoyen was fine by Hippolyte.<br>"Good morning, Hippolyte." the stranger replied. With time, his voice had lost his roughness and was now very pleasant on the ears, but Hippolyte could hear he was concerned.  
>"What is upsetting you so, my friend?" he asked and, as usual, the stranger smiled at his words, as if being called a fiend by him was a special joy.<br>"It is this book, Rousseau's "Emile". I have been reading it with pleasure, but the last chapter does not agree with me. – he expounded – Why should women be made especially for the pleasure of man and not vice versa, or them both being made for each other's pleasure? And why should women be passive and obedient to men, if they are as human as them? – he asked heatedly – You told me that all humans are equal, with the same rights, so why should males be "more equal" than females?"  
>Hippolyte sat down next to him and sighed. "No reason, mon ami, except that is more expedient for men that they are so, that they are taught to be submissive and not to think for themselves. One day, humanity will understand that these are stupid superstitions and prejudices as anything else, but I fear that day is still long in coming." he replied wistfully.<br>"I think I will leave this book unfinished, before the urge to toss it away becomes more intense." the stranger sighed, putting the book down.  
>"Even I didn't finish it. It made me too upset. Shall we go for a walk, instead?" Hippolyte asked.<br>"It is still frosted and too dark. Maybe later?" the stranger suggested.  
>Hippolyte nodded. "Here, - he grabbed Plutarch's Moralia, which had been resting open and face down on the coffee table – read this, it is much more entertaining." he knew that Plutarch's Lives had been the first book his friend had read and that he was quite fond of that old Greek's style.<br>"No, Hippolyte, I cannot accept it. You are still reading it." the stranger protested.  
>Hippolyte chuckled. "It would be only the third time I read it, do not worry, I can finish it again later." he explained.<br>The stranger smiled "If you say so… - he replied – Do you want me to keep the page marked?" he asked, taking the marker out of "Emile".  
>"Do not worry, that's not where I was actually reading, I just marked my favourite essay, but I can find it again." Hippolite said nonchalantly.<br>The stranger smiled and flipped the book open at that marker. "De Iside et Osiride. Sounds interesting." he commented.  
>"It is a mythological telling, rather like a fable. I think you'll like it." Hippolyte said and his friend smiled and set out to read.<br>Hippolyte stretched and picked up his friend's copy of Paradise Lost, the one that had been in his satchel along with Plutarch's Lives, Werther and a jumble of handwritten notes in German, and began to read.

Some minutes later, Hippolyte became aware of a small sound of distress. He raised his eyes from the book, which apart from some inspired speeches was not much to his taste, and turned to gaze towards his friend.  
>If he had thought that his complexion looked bloodless normally, then there was no appropriate way of describing it now.<br>He was so pale that his skin looked almost translucent, his blue eyes were wide in shock and his hands trembled as he held the book.  
>"My friend, are you alright?" he asked and the stranger seemed to snap out of his shock, only to drop the book, jump to his feet and put as much distance as possible between himself and Hippolyte.<br>"What is happening?" Hippolyte insisted, concerned.  
>"That story…" the stranger said in a thin voice, wrapping his arms around his middle as if to keep himself together.<br>"I am sorry if that upset you, I hadn't thought…" Hippolyte said, trying to get nearer, but he shied away.  
>"How, how can you bear to touch me, Hippolyte? You have read that, you have seen me, didn't you realize?" he cried, agonized.<br>"Realize?" he repeated, uncomprehending.  
>The stranger shook his head frantically and slid to the floor against the wall, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees.<br>Realization hit him a moment later, the same realization that had made him think of the "De Iside et Osiride" when he had first met the man.  
>"It looks as if the man had been cut apart and sewn back together… I have absolutely no clue as how he actually survived those wounds…" he had thought, that day.<p>

He kneeled next to his shocked friend and put a hand on his shoulder gently. His friend shied away as if burned, but Hippolyte did not desist.  
>"Are you trying to tell me that you have died, have been cut apart and have been pieced back together, mon ami?" he asked.<br>The stranger lifted his head, tears staining his face. "There was no me, before the piecing back together, Hippolyte. – he whispered desperately – My creator assembled me from stolen corpses." he confessed.  
>Hippolyte didn't want to believe his words, but his friend was too shocked and desperate and hopeless for it to be a morbid fantasy.<br>There were the scars to prove it, so deep and horrible (he had been right, no one could have survived those wounds), there was the fact that he had no name, no memory going back more than a scant few months and then the scattered notes in his satchel, with their hideous anatomical diagrams and formulas. In some horrible way, everything made sense.

"I am a monster in truth, Hippolyte. I've deceived you and I've let you almost convince me, but I'm no man." his friend sobbed.  
>Technically, it was true, but did his origins change anything of who his friend was?<br>Did they make him any less intelligent and sensitive, did they shield him from suffering, did they make him less lonely and in need of companionship?  
>Did they diminish him in any way?<p>

No, Hippolyte didn't think so.  
>His friend was not responsible for what had been done to him, he hadn't asked for it, he had had no say in it.<br>If anything, it did diminish the person who had done that to him and then abandoned him, as an afterthought, as a discarded failure, even if his friend was anything but a failure.  
>"You're more human than many trueborn men, my friend. – he whispered – And if you have been created from humans, how can you be anything but a human?"<br>The stranger's eyes now held a desperate intensity as if by looking at him like that he could made him accept what he was, but there was no need.  
>He had already accepted that there was some huge tragedy in his friend's past a long time ago, now he had only had the confirmation and was a step closer to find who was to blame.<p>

"And since you insist in saying that you are not a man, I have to confess that I'm not a man either. I'm a woman." she confessed, finally relieving himself, or rather herself, from the burden she had carried for the last few months.  
>Her friend seemed to forgot his desperation for an instant and he stared at her wide-eyed.<br>"You see, - she said gently – I have deceived you too. I have deceived the world at large for years on end. I was born Virginie and my father had wanted me to be like Emile's bride, but I was too tall to marry, a freak, and I wanted a life of my own, so I fled from home and joined the army and I've been Hippolyte ever since."  
>"Virginie doesn't suit you at all." he said weakly.<br>"You're not mad at me?" she asked, smiling.  
>He shook his head. "No, I'm not. This doesn't change things, does it? You're still my friend, aren't you?" he asked with a pleading look in his eyes.<br>"Yes, of course. - she said softly – So why should what you told me change things for me?" she asked.  
>"Do you really think so?" he asked in a whisper.<br>She nodded. "You are still yourself, no matter where you came from." she said.  
>"Oh, Hippolyte, you must be an angel, there is no other explanation. If only humans were more like you…" her friend exclaimed, then paused.<br>"It feels a bit strange to call you Hippolyte, now. Does Marie know?" he asked.  
>She nodded. "She had resolved the conundrum by calling me just captain Lagarde."<br>"It would feel awkward, and to call you Virginie would just feel wrong. Can I call you Hippolyta, like the amazon?" he asked.  
>"That would please me much." she admitted, smiling.<br>He smiled back, a bit weakly, but she had successfully managed to pull him out of his desperation.

"The scribbled notes in your satchel. Did he write them? Your maker?" Hippolyta asked, moments later.  
>Everything felt like the oddest dream to him.<br>First the book, so horrifyingly similar to his own story, then the way he, no she, had taken even that in stride as if it didn't change anything, then her own confession.  
>His head was spinning madly and he halfway believed that, despite her protestations of the contrary, somehow she would come to her senses later and feel the true horror of his story and then the fable of his human life would end and he would be the monster, alone in the woods, once more.<br>When she asked him about the notes, he didn't find it in himself to conceal anything anymore from her.  
>Let her know everything, he thought, wanting to test the depth of her acceptance, wanting to see the moment when it would become too much and she would turn upon him in rage and disgust.<p>

"Yes, they are his. – he confirmed – He wrote them while he was making me. He wanted to conquer death, to understand what made humans human, so he made me as a test, he brought me back with the force of lightning and when I opened my eyes, incapable to talk, barely conscious of myself and in need of help, he fled from me in horror, leaving me alone. - he recounted, shivering at the memory - I fled for the woods and I had to teach myself everything, which berries were edible and which not, how to light a fire, where to shelter for the night. I learned to speak by hearing some people in a cottage, from the woodshed where I hid, and I taught myself to read from some books I had found abandoned. – he continued – I just wanted to be like anything else, but every human I met was afraid of me. I thought I would live alone and die alone, and I was so angry, so angry, Hippolyta. I knew I was on the verge of giving free reign to that rage, of doing something regrettable. I wanted to find my maker and make him suffer as I was suffering, but you saved me, you saved me..." he trailed in a broken voice.  
>Hippolyta made a small sound in her throat and held him against her, as she had done when he had broken down that first day. "You're not alone anymore, mon ami. We have each other." she whispered and he started crying again, not in agony as before, but in relief.<p>

"Shh, do not cry… - she said soothingly – I will help you. We will find your maker, if you want, and you would be able to tell him that you're still alive, even if he abandoned you, that you have found happiness. And then you'll let me punch him in the face." she concluded.  
>"Why?" he managed to ask.<br>"Because he made my friend suffer." she replied simply and he felt something stir in his heart, pure adoration for that person, who had a heart so big and a mind so open as to accept even him, that would fight for him, that called him friend and equal.  
>He didn't realise it yet, but his love for his friend had started there and then.<p>

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><p><strong>See, no slash!<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the original Frankenstein characters. They belong to Mrs. Mary Woolstonecraft Shelley, to whom I'm grateful for spinning such a compelling tale. The OCs, however, are mine.**

**Transition chapter, quite short, a bit fluffy and made up mostly of internal dialogue. No warnings.**

**I apologize for the shortness, but I realized that otherwise I'd have to publish a very long one and I was not sure I'd be able to complete it today. If all goes well, you should have more later this day.**

**Thanks to my reviewers eitherangel, Suindara and TheBlackPages and to WoundedFlame who has not reviewed yet, but has been reading it. I hope you'll not be disappointed by the development, or lack thereof, TheBlackPages.**

**To the lurkers, speak up, folks. Is that so uninteresting not to warrant a comment? Anonymous reviews are on, if you wish to stay incognito.**

**To tie up the rather long AN, I have two pieces of news for you:**

**1) I have jotted down the plan of the story and it is made up of 7 more logical blocks of action. Some of those will probably be split in two or more chapters, but I know where the story is going and how it ends.**

**2) I won't be able to update until the new year, unfortunately, as I'm very busy next week and then I have to go to my parent's place and I won't have a computer at my complete disposal. Sorry about that.**

**To conclude as usual: Flames will be used to light the fireplace. It is winter, I could use extra heat.  
><strong>

**Enjoy!  
><strong>

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><p>Springtime came, finally, late and cold according to his friend, but it was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.<br>Everything returned to life and he was caught in that massive effort of renovation and couldn't help but feel reborn as well, in a spiritual sense.  
>The grass in the meadows next to the cottage was a tender green so bright and intense that it almost made him cry in joy. Leaves covered the trees again. He had never imagined there could be so many different shades of green in the world.<br>And the flowers, they sprang everywhere, of so many different colours and shapes. He could spend a morning contemplating them, the delicate petals, the tiny pistils, the bees and insects that flew from one to the other ceaselessly. Sometimes it was almost too much and he had to close his eyes and lie down on the grass to keep his head from spinning.  
>And the sky was a blue so deep and crystal clear that it almost hurt the eyes, crisscrossed by clouds that looked so soft that he almost wished he could touch them.<br>Birds cavorted among the clouds and sang their songs, or cawed their calls. He had made a game of trying to discover which bird made each call, to which Hippolyta eagerly participated, laughing in delight, saying that she had not had such fun since she had been a child.  
>They saw squirrels darting among the limbs of the trees, timid rabbits munch on grass at the edge of the fields, deer darting through the woods, fast and fleeting as a fantasy, and even a shy fox, eyes glowing in the twilight shade approach the cottage in search of food.<p>

He wondered if every human child felt like this on his first spring and then lost the wonder and amazement as years passed by and everything became commonplace.  
>Maybe not, as human children were born small and unaware, maybe it was not the first spring, but maybe there was one such spring, a magic season when children understood, fleetingly, the wonder of the world where they lived, how harmonious and so much greater than them it was.<br>Surely he did. He lay on the grass, contemplating the immensity of the sky and the immutable inexorability of the cycle of life, which would keep on turning long after the last human disappeared from the world, he was sure, and couldn't help but feel awed by its divine majesty.  
>If there was a god or a spirit that governed the world, surely this was his most effective manifestation, or maybe there wasn't and nature itself was divine. In those moments, he could almost believe it.<p>

Hippolyta claimed she felt cold, but compared to winter it was wonderfully warm and he felt comfortable enough to lounge in the grass shirtless, basking in the sun, especially around midday.  
>Hippolyta didn't seem to mind, as long as he kept his trousers on, but he had to remember to be properly dressed when he came back to the cottage, before Marie caught sight of him and started berating him on the importance of propriety.<br>In the first few days that had happened a lot, especially as, after spending time in the sun, his skin reddened and anything getting in contact with it became quite uncomfortable if not downright painful.  
>He felt ashamed of it, taking it as a sign of his unnatural origins, but Hippolyta laughed and told him that it was extremely human.<br>When she went to Egypt with the Armeè, many of the soldiers, including her, fell victim to the same problem, even if confined to their faces and necks for wearing a complete uniform.  
>"It is just the sun, my friend. You're not used to it, that's all." she reassured him and in truth, after a while it got better. His skin still reddened if he was not careful, but not to the levels of the first days and he might also be inclined to say that he didn't look so greyish anymore.<p>

Sometimes they spent the whole day outside, bringing food and books with them, walking through the woods and the meadows or sitting down in the sun, while, overhead, two kites that had nested near the house wheeled seemingly effortlessly in the air and whistled their shrill calls.  
>He knew they must be a mated pair, but he had nonetheless nicknamed them Isis and Nephtys.<br>The first time she had heard him call them like that, Hippolyta had looked to him with a hint of worry, but he had just smiled and said that it had shocked him, but it had been a good story of tragic love and treachery, rather like Hamlet, and she laughed with him.

Maybe the most amazing aspect of that spring was that, despite his revelations to her, his relationship with her had not changed.  
>She still called him friend and equal without a hint of disgust, still accorded him the same respect she had always had, still discussed with him and was indulgent with his many faults and quirks.<br>Intelligent and cultured as she was, she couldn't help but having understood what he was, a creature born of unnatural means and ambition, abominable if not in aspect at least from a moral standing ground to most people, and still treated him as a person like any other, no, like a person unlike any other, friendly, brotherly almost.  
>"It is not your fault, mon ami." she had said, she had told him that everyone is responsible only for what he chooses to do or not to do, not for what was done to them by force, that his life was his own to carve with his free will.<br>She had accepted him wholly, without reserves and maybe, just maybe, he could learn to accept himself as well.

What made a human a person? Even animals were born in the same way he suspected, therefore birth was not really a discriminant, he told himself. No, what made a person was the ability to reason, to formulate moral judgements, to act on something other than instinct.  
>"To know good and evil and choose for himself" was the definition on one of Hippolyta's books. "Or for herself" someone had surreptitiously pencilled in the margin.<br>That he could do.  
>When the villagers had attacked him the day he met Hippolyta, he could have killed them, some of them at least, he knew he was stronger and faster than normal humans and some instinct inside him had screamed for him to lay waste on them, to make them scream and bleed, but he had chosen not to heed it. He just wanted to be like them, or to be left alone, he didn't want to hurt anybody, so he had contained his force, tried to shake them off without hurting them too much.<br>There: he had exercised his moral judgement and that was just the more striking example.

He did that every day, even in the smallest things, for example when he chose not to eat the last macaron, even if he could, because he knew Hippolyta loved them, or when he helped Marie to tote around bags of flour or other heavy items even if she ranted against him, saying that she was not in her dotage yet, because he knew that her back would hurt afterwards, if she left her to her own devices.  
>Every day was dotted with moments in which he had to do that.<br>Did that make him a person?  
>If he were a monster, or an animal he would not care, would he?<p>

No, he was a person, Hippolyta showed him every day and even Marie, even if he probably was a very young person for her, a child, seeing how she interacted with him.  
>And even if he were to be a person just for the two women in the whole world, it would be enough for him, it already made him feel like he had a life to look forward to.<br>Yes, spring was rebirth in the truest sense of the word.


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the original Frankenstein characters. They belong to Mrs. Mary Woolstonecraft Shelley, to whom I'm grateful for spinning such a compelling tale. The OCs, however, are mine.**

**Phew, I managed it. Here you are my dear readers, another chapter for you. That will probably be it until the new year, as per previous AN.**

**No warnings, except fluffiness. The chapter is centered on the question of choosing a name. Part of it was inspired by the epic adventure that was the choice of the name of one of my colleagues' baby boy (took 6-7 months more or less).**  
><strong>It was bloody hard to write 6 chapters without naming one of the characters but it's finally over. I hope no one would get disappointed with the choice.<strong>

**There is a bit of gratuitous Latin (which is translated in-text) and a bit of gratuitous French. _  
>Ci-devant<em> was the way the Revolutionaires called the former nobles after titles were abolished in 1792 and _ultra _stands for _ultra-reactionnaire,_ the most rabid reactionaires after the Restoration in 1815. Finally, _connerie_means bullshit.**

**There are also two homages, to Shakespeare and to Les Miserables. Let's see who finds them first.**

**Flames will be used to cook risotto. Yum!  
><strong>

**Enjoy!**

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><p>"I need a name." he suddenly declared, one afternoon as they lounged on the grass after a light packed lunch, in a meadow a couple of hours of walk from the cottage.<br>Hippolyta put down her book, a translation of Sallustius, and smiled warmly at him.  
>"That you do." she simply replied.<br>He sighed and rolled to his front, looking at her with impatience. She just wouldn't get the hint, would she?  
>"I want a name." he insisted.<br>Hippolyta frowned. "Then choose one, by all means. – she replied – Honestly, I thought you would have already chosen by now."  
>He felt like colouring under her stern but not unkind scolding. "I was rather hoping you would give me a name." he replied softly.<br>Hippolyta shook her head and leaned towards him to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. He didn't even flinch, he had gotten used to her physical proximity and it didn't bother him anymore. He knew she wouldn't harm him.  
>"You are not a pet to be named by whoever collects it, mon ami. – she explained – You can name a cat or a dog or a horse because you own them, discoverers named the new lands because they took possession of them, but I do not own you and wouldn't want to. You are your own person and, as much as I care for you and want to make you happy, I will not name you. You have to do it yourself, mon ami." she concluded, with an air of benevolent seriousness.<p>

He mulled her words in his head in silence for some moments. "I had not thought about that, – he then admitted – and I think you're right to a certain extent, but parents name their children, don't they?" he asked.  
>Hippolyta chuckled. "But parents do own their children, mon ami. It's called <em>patria<em>_potestas_." she replied.  
>He looked at her wide eyed and she sensed his curiosity and astonishment and explained it better. "Parents have the legal custody over their children until they reach the majority, that for boys is somewhere around eighteen or twenty-one or even later and for girls… - she made a pause – Well, usually they pass from the <em>potestas<em> of their father to that of their husband, but that's another question. The point is that parents can and must make decisions for their children, such as what to teach them and sometimes even who to marry. Naming them is just one of them and surely babies cannot name themselves, they are not self-aware yet. – she continued – And you must admit that leaving people unnamed until they are old enough to choose would be unpractical." she said smiling and he nodded in agreement.  
>It would be very confusing and no one would know who a person might be referring to in a conversation.<p>

"But your case is different, mon ami. You are certainly self-aware enough to make this decision for yourself." she concluded, squeezing his shoulder gently.  
>He nodded. "I must choose carefully then, since <em>nomina <em>_sunt__ consequentia __rerum,_names have meanings." he said seriously.  
>"Ah, but what is in a name? A rose would be equally beautiful under any other name. Do not fret overmuch on this, mon ami." she advised, mock-serious and he laughed.<br>"Would you at least help me choose? – he asked – The only names I know come from books and I'm likely as not to end up calling myself Armodius or Theognides, or something equally bizarre." he joked.  
>"As long as you like it… – she quipped, laughing - I think that those two rather suit you."<br>"Please, Hippolyta, be serious. – he entreated, smiling – You're not helping."  
>"Alright, mon ami, I'll help you. - she conceded – What about Renè?" she proposed.<br>He shook his head, frowning. "I'd rather not share with Monsieur de Chateaubriand anything more than a common claim to humanity." he protested.  
>In his thirst for new books, he had got his hands on Renè, a novella from Chateaubriand and, while he rather liked the descriptions of nature, but hated the political implications and the religious-tinted morbidness. He later discovered that Chateaubriand was a reactionary <em>ultra<em> and that cemented his dislike of the writer.

Hippolyta laughed heartily. "I'm afraid I've made a Jacobin out of you, my friend." she commented.  
>"And I'm grateful towards you for it, my friend." he retorted, grinning.<br>"What about Emile, then?" she continued.  
>"Not bad. I'll think on it." he replied, stretching lazily. The sun had hid behind a cloud and it was rather nippy, so he sat up and donned his shirt.<br>"No, wait, I've found the perfect name for you!" she exclaimed suddenly.  
>He looked a question to her.<br>"Gebhard, like Blucher" she said, almost doubling up in laughter.  
>"Hippolyta! That's awful. Is it even a real name?" he replied, mock-outraged.<br>She nodded enthusiastically. "It is the name of a Prussian marshall. German names are quite funny, sometimes."  
>"And why would I want a German name?" he enquired, quirking an eyebrow.<br>"Well, you're technically German, or, better, Bavarian." she replied gently.  
>"I do not feel Bavarian at all. I feel French, if that's the same for you." he commented drily.<br>"Then I guess you are, mon ami. One of the other things you only are free to choose." she pointed out.  
>He nodded, glad of it. He didn't want to have anything that tied him to the place he was brought to life and, even if it was not likely that anyone would ask him, but he would be proud to tell that he was a citoyen, compatriot of Marat, Danton, Desmoulins and Robespierre.<p>

"In his papers, the Doctor referred to me as 'the Adam of my labours'. Do you think that counts as naming me? – he asked, worried and dejected – I do not want anything of his and surely do not want for him to claim ownership over me. He had his chance of being a father to me and wasted it." he declared, angrily.  
>"I do not think this counts, mon ami. You're still your own." she reassured him and a weight lifted from his heart.<br>"You've been reading those papers?" she enquired, a bit worried.  
>He nodded. "It's very hard, since I have to look up every word in your dictionary, but I'm getting there. – he admitted – Do not worry about me, Hippolyta, I only want to know more about myself and about him. I want to know why." he reassured, seeing her brow crease in worry.<br>"I guess you have a right to it. - she conceded – But I rather hope you do not let yourself be influenced by any _connerie_ that awful Doctor might have written. Whatever he might have thought, you're human." she reaffirmed, determination shining in her only eye.  
>He smiled and squeezed her hand gently. "I know, now, and if I ever doubt about it, I'll have you to bolster my conviction."<br>"That you will." she confirmed, squeezing back.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and the wind picked up its pace across the meadow.  
>They decided to decamp and return to the cottage, before rain caught up with them, but didn't quite manage it and ran the last ten minutes under a heavy rain, getting to the cottage soaked to the skin.<br>Marie half-scolded them like wayward children, half fussed over them as if they had just risked death. Muttering about water stains and sodden clothes, she sent them both to their quarters to get changed and dry their hair, then had them seat in front of the blazing fireplace with blankets on their legs and a steaming cup of tea in their hands.  
>He realized that Marie didn't treat just him as a child, but also Hippolyta, as if she was a grumpy but doting grandmother and that that was her way of caring for them.<br>"Dear Marie…" he thought, sipping his tea.

"I wonder what the two of you were thinking, not to notice that the storm was closing down on the valley. I noticed from here, my knee was killing me…" Marie commented, bringing more biscuits.  
>"I apologise, Marie. – he said – It is rather my fault. I asked captain Lagarde to help me choose a name and we got tangled in a discussion."<br>"Humpf – Marie snorted – Just about time, monsieur. It is rather disturbing to tiptoe around how to call you. – she added gruffly – I rather think you look like a Eustace or maybe a Bertrand." she concluded, setting the teapot down on the coffee table and shuffling back to the kitchen.  
>Hippolyta fought to keep her face straight and, as soon as Marie was out of hearken, chuckled into her teacup.<br>"You might as well call yourself Jean-Baptiste or Anne-Louis then, like a _ci-devant.__"_she said and he laughed with her.

In the following weeks, it became a sort of a game that involved the entire household. One of them would propose a name and the others would try to find some fault in it, laughing all the way. Marie was the worse in this aspect, finding some witty criticism to make on almost every suggestion.  
>Marcel reminded her of one of his cousins who was a drunkard, Jeremie of her late husband, who spent all his money playing cards in the local tavern.<br>Louis was obviously discarded: he didn't want to be mistaken for a royalist, would he? Georges sounded too English, Hubert was too medieval, Jean and Jacques too common and he deserved a special name. Leonide was considered and then discarded as well, because both he and Hippolyta them supported the Athenians rather than the Spartans.  
>Pericles was shortlisted, instead alongside with Marius, Nicholas, Andrè and Maxime, which was later discarded because it could give rise to put-downs about his large build. Brutus was similarly avoided, even if was the name of a tyrannicide, because it meant "beast" and, really, he couldn't afford the humour.<br>All in all, choosing a name was revealing itself much more difficult but much more fun than he had thought possible.

"How did you choose your name, Hippolyta?" he asked one day, while the two of them were splitting logs on the back of the cottage. The spring continued cold and rainy and their stash of wood was dwindling.  
>Hippolyta split another log and wiped the sweat from her forehead with a sleeve. It was a chilly day, the sun was hidden behind the clouds, but both of them were sweating from the exertion even in their shirtsleeves and he didn't dare taking his shirt off so near the cottage, before Marie caught him red-handed.<br>"I had never liked my name much. Virginie… It was not fitting for me. It makes you think of a delicate and gentle girl, doesn't it? – she asked, heaving her axe again and he nodded – Well, I was six feet tall at fourteen, grew even taller later and, trust me, even in the frilliest pink dress looked nothing like a delicate girl. My feet were too big, my hands too square, my chest too flat. My mother thought my only possibility would have been the convent, but convents had been dismantled, so she was trying to give me over to some old man. No young man in his right mind would have me, she used to say." she continued, splitting another log and bending to grab the pieces and throw them into the woodshed.  
>"But I stuck it to them all and fled to Paris with the butler's clothes, he was a big man, and enlisted in the Army. – she continued, smirking – I had always thought that I would have been just about right for an Amazon and had started to call myself Hippolyta in my mind, so when the recruitment officer asked me my name, I just gave him the male version of that."<br>"As I've already told you, - he offered – it suits you much more."  
>"You'll find one that suits you as well, do not worry." she reassured him, setting down to work again.<p>

He had already tarried long enough, he told himself days later, waking up in the morning.  
>The process of choosing was fun and nice, but he needed a name now and he needed to make a decision. He rolled off the bed and walked to the washstand, splashing some rather cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror, trying to gauge whether he could go another day without shaving or he'd have to go down to the kitchen to heat a pail of water.<br>Hippolyta had taught him how to shave: even if she didn't have to, because women didn't usually grow beards (even in Marie sported a bit of moustache), but men were supposed to shave, so she had always put on a good show of it.  
>It had been quite unnerving to have someone manoeuvre a sharp implement so near his face, but he had grasped the concept soon enough and, even if he more often than not ended up with a few nicks, he could now do it on his own, even if it was a hassle.<br>He had briefly considered growing a beard, to avoid shaving and maybe covering up part of the scar he had on his jaw, but it was too itchy and scratchy and he had desisted after a while.  
>Fortunately, his beard didn't grow very fast, it almost didn't grow at all, in fact.<br>He was grateful for not being like some of Hippolyta's old comrades, of which she had told him. Jerome, one of her fellow captains had to shave absolutely every day and his beard started from his cheekbones, making him look like a bear.

He had grown used to his own face, over time. It didn't scare him any more as it used to do in the beginning.  
>Yes, it was pale and, yes, it was still gaunt and he still had those ugly scars on his jaw and on his forehead, but he looked more human than not and there were people who could look upon him without flinching.<br>"Marius." he told his reflection, trying to convince himself that this name fit him. It was the same name Hippolyta's colonel, Georges Pontmercy had given to his son, months before Waterloo, and it somewhat felt wrong to share his name with that young child, even if it was a good name.  
>Did he look like a Pericles, whose namesake was a famous orator, a man of virtue and noble bearing? He didn't think so.<br>He didn't look like a Nicholas, as well. He rather liked the meaning of the name "victory of the people", it sounded revolutionary without being weird, but it just didn't fit. It was not rational, more like a sensation.  
>Andrè instead… That was a name he could think of looking at himself every morning. He liked the meaning of it "man", because that was what he was, just a man like any other in his needs and aspirations if unlike any other in every other respect.<br>Yes, that would be his name, he told himself, leaving the washstand and getting his clothes on.

When he got downstairs, Hippolyta and Marie were huddled in the kitchen, the housekeeper mixing something in a pot, Hippolyta nursing a cup of coffee.  
>"Took you long enough, monsieur. – Marie muttered as a greeting – The two of you should have gone to bed earlier yesterday night, instead of rambling away in the parlour until the wee hours of the night." she scolded gently and took the pot from the fire for a second, while she poured a cup of milk for him and ushered him to the table.<br>"Andrè – he said and the housekeeper eyed him suspiciously – You can call me Andrè from now on, if it pleases you, my dear Marie." he repeated, grinning like the schoolboy ha had never been.  
>Marie snorted, but didn't say anything, turning back to the stove and to her concoctions.<br>Hippolyta set down her coffee and jumped up from her chair, clapping him enthusiastically across his back. "I knew you would find something that you liked! – she exclaimed – Andrè." she repeated thoughtfully, as if getting accustomed to the sound of it and he thought that it sounded even better when pronounced by someone who cared for him.  
>"It's perfect. – she approved – Marie, would it be too much to ask you to bake a cake today? I think we need to commemorate."<br>"I thought he'd never decide - the housekeeper commented drily, surreptitiously wiping the corner of one eye with her apron – Strawberry jam tart will have to do, I'm afraid, otherwise someone will have to go to town to buy supplies ."  
>"It will be perfect." Andrè said, voice tight with emotion, willing himself not to cry.<br>It was perfect indeed.


End file.
